


proceed as normal, nothing to see here

by katsumi



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, M/M, bellamy blake: human disaster, overprotective miller has no chill, the gang is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8829667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumi/pseuds/katsumi
Summary: When Bellamy gets in a fight with Clarke and spirals completely out of control, Monty learns that not only is Bellamy really bad at feelings—no surprise there—but Miller is, too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when Bellamy completely lost his shit in 3x03 and Monty had to rein him back in? This is how I like to think a similar-ish situation would play out in a modern AU with much lower stakes. Bellamy Blake is a human disaster with a heart of gold and I love him. Also Nathan Miller has zero chill when it comes to Monty and no one can convince me otherwise.

In late May, Bellamy and Clarke get into one of their normal-sized fights that spirals way out of control way fast. Monty doesn’t know the details, except that things culminate in Clarke screaming _live your own life, Bellamy, see if I fucking care!_ , throwing her shoe at his head, and then turning on her heel to go straight to the airport for her summer teaching fellowship in London.

 

Monty only knows all this because the showdown takes place at Bellamy and Miller’s apartment, and Miller happens to be there to see it. “She literally hailed a taxi wearing only one high heel,” Miller recounts the next day over coffee, not even trying to hide how impressed he is.

 

Bellamy then proceeds to lock himself in his room for twenty-four hours, blasting really aggressive classical music. A day later he emerges, rumpled and glowering, drags Miller off the couch, and forces him to go tandem bungee jumping.

 

“I don’t understand,” Monty says, as an exhausted Miller slumps into Monty’s couch later that night. “How does someone _force_ you to go bungee jumping? Did he handcuff you? Is this story about to take a turn that would make Clarke jealous?”

 

Miller rolls his eyes, but it looks like even that motion takes effort. “Shut up, no. He’s my best friend, and he probably-maybe broke up with his girlfriend. I was trying to be supportive.”

 

“Supportive friends talk. They don’t fling themselves off of bridges.”

 

“You underestimate how much I dislike talking about feelings,” Miller groans. And then, for reasons Monty can’t decipher, he glances at Monty uncomfortably, clears his throat, and presses quickly on. “Bellamy is like a raw nerve of pure crazy right now. _You_ try talking to that.”

 

“Nah,” Monty says with a laugh, reaching out to pat Miller’s head. (And if he lingers just a little bit too long to be strictly friendly, well, he can justify it: Miller’s had a hell of a day.)

 

“Someone’s gotta talk feelings with Bellamy,” Monty says, smiling. “And I think I know just the person for the job.”

 

* * *

 

It turns out even Wells isn’t ready for the nightmare that is _Bellamy, Brokenhearted: This Time It’s Serious_.

 

Wells arrives at Bellamy’s door the following weekend with a six pack of beer, homemade guacamole, and that irresistible Jaha smile, only to be somehow whisked away to an all-night EDM rave at an abandoned warehouse. He shows up an hour late to the weekly group brunch the next morning, shaken and sweaty and still wearing a pink glow-in-the-dark necklace, and announces that he is officially done trying to help people.

 

“All people?” Raven asks, scooting closer and rubbing his shoulders in sympathy. “Or just Bellamy?”

 

“ _All people_ ,” Wells says, miserably. “It’s not worth it. Nothing is worth it.”

 

Monty leans across the table and shoves the rest of his pancakes onto Wells’ plate. He clearly needs them.

 

“Octavia,” Jasper says, looking rather shell-shocked. “Your brother _broke Wells_.”

 

Octavia scoffs. “Like Bell has that kind of power.”

 

Wells proceeds to empty the entire bottle of syrup onto the pancakes and then just stare at them, forlorn.

 

“I told you guys,” Miller says, casually sliding some of his eggs and toast onto Monty’s now empty plate. “He’s a fucking terror right now.”

 

“I don’t know what you guys are being such babies about,” Raven laughs, although she squeezes Wells’ thigh in an attempt at reassurance. (He jumps.) “Bungee jumping is badass. Raves are badass. You want me to take Bellamy duty next? It honestly sounds fun.”

 

“You still need to get Bellamy to process his feelings, though,” Monty reminds her.

 

Raven cocks her head, eyes bright. “You think I can’t do that? Piece of cake.”

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Raven shows up at Octavia’s door dripping wet and snarling. “Your motherfucking brother,” she says, pushing her way in, “tried to fucking _drown me_.”

 

Monty, who’s been trying to delete yet another virus from Octavia’s computer, catches the full story: Raven had gotten Bellamy to admit he was “maybe not feeling so great,” and then Bellamy had taken Raven sailing.

 

“He can’t sail!” Raven shrieks, while Monty pats at her hair with a washcloth. “Did you know that, Octavia? Did you know that he can’t fucking sail?”

 

“Well, duh,” Octavia says, unhelpfully.

 

“ _I_ didn’t know that,” Raven continues. “Or I wouldn’t have gotten in the boat with him!”

 

“Why _did_ you get in the boat with him?” Octavia asks.

 

“I thought the open water would be a good place to talk about fucking FEELINGS,” Raven screeches, and Monty would laugh if she didn’t look so genuinely terrifying.

 

“You know,” Monty interjects, putting on his practiced _let’s not kill each other_ smile, “you probably wouldn’t have actually drowned. You were wearing a life vest, right? Bellamy might be spiraling, but he’s not, like, murderous.”

 

“It’s the principle of the thing, Monty.” Which, yeah, Monty has to agree with her, there.

 

On his way to the subway, Monty texts Miller, because the first thing he does when anything remotely exciting happens is text Miller. He’d be more self-conscious about it, but Miller texts him just as frequently. Friends text. It’s fine.

 

 **Monty  
** Maybe we should give Bellamy some space?  
At least until he returns to some semblance of sanity

 

 **Miller  
** Finally getting behind my not talking about feelings plan  
I like it

 

 **Monty  
** Only short term  
I’m just thinking of your health  
As his roommate you’re in the most danger  
Try not to let him murder you in your sleep

 

 **Miller  
** At the rate we’re going, it’s more likely gonna be the other way around  
Still at Octavia’s?

 

 **Monty  
** Walking to the subway now

 

 **Miller  
** Need a ride home?

 

Monty wrinkles his nose down at his phone, trying to suppress a smile. Miller’s weird considerate streak makes his insides melt, but it’s also very, very easy to misinterpret. Monty’s gotta keep his head on straight.

 

 **Monty  
** Nah it’s not far  
I’ll text when I get home if you want  
Not that it’s a big deal

 

 **Miller  
** Yeah, text  
Thanks

 

Monty tries so hard not to let shit like that get to his head.

 

* * *

 

For the next week, there’s a tenuous peace. Miller reports that Bellamy, who’s on summer break from his PhD program, isn’t necessarily doing _better_ , but he is at least spending less time locked in his bedroom, which seems positive.

 

And then the next Friday night, after Monty’s sent Miller home from one of their Battlestar Galactica marathons, Monty’s shaken awake by someone pounding at the door to his and Jasper’s apartment.

 

“Come on,” Bellamy orders, as soon as Monty opens the door. Monty has a lot of questions, but he’s sleepy and he doesn’t want to wake Jasper and, honestly, Bellamy can be super terrifying when he wants to be. So, in his black sleep tank, penguin-print boxers, and flip flops, Monty follows Bellamy down to his car.

 

They’ve been driving for about five minutes when Monty wakes up enough to realize he’s made several critical mistakes. First, he left his phone by his bed, so he can’t send a play-by-play of this bizarre midnight adventure to Miller. Second, he really should have grabbed a coat; it’s a lot colder than he expected it to be. And third, he’s willingly gotten into the car of a man who is clearly mentally unhinged.

 

“What’s up, Bellamy?” Monty asks, trying to keep his voice light. “Where are we going?”

 

“Vermont,” Bellamy answers, like this is a perfectly normal thing to say at 12:23 a.m. on a Friday night.

 

Monty groans, knocking his head against the seat rest. “That’s hours away.”

 

“Yep.”

 

 _You couldn’t just call Clarke and figure your shit out?_ Monty thinks, pinching the bridge of his nose. But, this is fine. He can handle this. Bellamy just needs time to process. Monty can give him that.

 

“Why are we going to Vermont?” he asks, through clenched teeth.

 

“You’ll see when we get there,” Bellamy growls, and if Monty didn’t know him better, he’d think Bellamy really was about to murder him and leave him dead in the woods.

 

But he likes to think he knows Bellamy pretty well, and that Bellamy probably isn’t so mad at Clarke that he would murder one of her (and his) best friends. Plus, save for jumping out of the car on the highway, there’s nothing Monty can do. So, with a sigh, he leans his head against the window and falls asleep.

 

When he wakes up, Monty’s not sure if they’re in Vermont. He is sure that it is pitch dark out, they are stopped on the side of the highway, and Bellamy is no longer in the driver’s seat. Monty tumbles out the door and rounds the hood of the car to find Bellamy crouched in the dirt, head in his hands.

 

Monty softens, thinking for a moment that it might have happened, that Bellamy might have finally started to confront his feelings. And then Bellamy looks up at him, grimacing, and says, “The car broke down.”

 

Monty’s jaw drops. “You’ve got to be _kidding me_ , man.”

 

“Nope.” Bellamy glances at the car like it’s betrayed him. “It needs to be jumped.”

 

“Do you at least have cables?” Monty asks. Bellamy shakes his head, and Monty’s never wanted to kick someone in the shins so badly in his entire life.

 

“Great,” he shouts, because they’re in the middle of _nowhere_ so he might as well be loud. “Was this part of your master plan? Get us stuck in the middle of the woods? Where the hell are we, anyway?”

 

“About an hour away from the city,” Bellamy says, and he at least looks chagrined. “Can you call someone?”

 

“No,” Monty says, “I can’t. I didn’t bring my phone.” He blanches. “You brought your phone, right? Come on, Bellamy, tell me you brought your phone.”

 

“I did,” Bellamy says. He’s barely meeting Monty’s eyes. “It’s just...pretty close to running out of batteries.”

 

Monty’s desired manifestation of his anger is rapidly escalating from kick-in-the-shins to punch-in-the-face. But at the end of the day, _he_ was the idiot who blindly got into the car with Bellamy, so he probably shouldn’t throw stones.

 

(No, he actually has every fucking right to throw stones. But someone should be keeping their head on straight, and that’s clearly not going to be Bellamy.)

 

“Okay,” Monty huffs, in a hail-mary attempt at zen. “Fine. Then call someone to come get us.”

 

Bellamy nods. He stands, digs his phone out of his pocket, and dials, only to hang up after twenty seconds.

 

“Voicemail.”

 

“I mean, it’s like one in the morning. Of course they didn’t answer. Call back.”

 

“I think Raven’s not going to answer _any_ of my calls,” Bellamy admits, looking down at his phone.

 

“Well of course you shouldn’t call Raven after you tried to drown her, god.”

 

Bellamy tries another number, winces.

 

“I think Wells is ignoring them, too.”

 

“Gee,” Monty snaps, in spite of himself, “I wonder why.”

 

Bellamy looks at his phone for a long beat, as though trying to work out some kind of complicated puzzle, and then glances up at Monty, tentative.

 

“Does Jasper have a car?”

 

Monty rolls his eyes. “Does Jasper have—no, Jasper doesn’t have a car! You know this. Come on, just call Miller already.”

 

Bellamy bites his lip, his shoulders slumping. “There’s no other option, huh?”

 

Monty leans back against the hood of Bellamy’s car, folding his arms. “Miller will come get you. Miller is probably the only one who will get out of bed in the middle of the night for you. Or have things gotten so bad that you’ve alienated even him?”

 

“No, it’s not that, I just…” Bellamy looks at Monty for a long beat, then groans. “He is going to _murder_ me.”

 

 _Not if I get there first_ , Monty thinks as Bellamy dials.

 

“Hey, man. Yeah, I know it’s late. I’m stuck on the northbound side of I-95 somewhere about 50 to 60 miles outside the city. My car broke down, and my phone is almost out of juice. And uh...” He takes a deep breath, shooting Monty a look he doesn’t know how to interpret, “Monty’s with me.”

 

Monty can’t make out what Miller’s saying, only that he’s saying it _loudly_.

  

“He’s okay, he’s okay,” Bellamy says, running a hand through his hair. “We’re both okay, but...can you come get us? Yeah. Yeah. Exit 15, I think. Bring cables? Okay. See you soon, man, thanks.”

 

He shoves the phone back into his pocket and trudges over to where Monty is still leaning against the hood. “Miller’s coming.”

 

“I gathered.”

 

Bellamy looks down, seeming to notice for the first time that Monty is, err, underdressed. His frown deepens. “Shit, we should get you in the car. It’s cold out here.”

 

It _is_ cold, and Monty really wants to know what all the yelling was about just then. But something has changed in Bellamy’s face, and Monty’s worried if he doesn’t tap on the cracks in his stony exterior now, they’ll harden up again. He crosses his arms tighter across his chest.

 

“What’s going on with you, Bellamy?”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“It’s not, because you dragged me out in the middle of the night to go on a _road trip to Vermont_. That’s not normal behavior. That’s borderline sociopathic behavior.”

 

Bellamy’s eyes are wide and, if Monty isn’t mistaken, a little wet in the moonlight. “I’m sorry. That was...I didn’t think.”

 

“No, you didn’t.” But Bellamy’s rapidly shriveling into the equivalent of a sad puppy, and goddamnit, Monty wants to get to the bottom of this more than he wants to be mad. “Bellamy,” he says, softer. “I’m worried about you. Are you okay?”

 

Bellamy says nothing for a long, long beat. Then, slowly, he shakes his head _no_.

 

“Okay,” Monty breathes. “Well, that’s a start.”

 

* * *

 

Once they’ve climbed back into the car, Bellamy starts talking. He’s quiet, and he refuses to look Monty in the eye, but he grudgingly explains that Clarke’s teaching fellowship has the potential to turn into a full-time position overseas, and he doesn’t want to be the reason she doesn’t take it.

 

Monty wills himself not to roll his eyes. “So you broke up with her?”

 

Bellamy flinches. “I didn’t. I more…”

 

“Became so insufferable about the whole thing that she broke up with you.”

 

Bellamy doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

 

“Bellamy,” Monty says, “Clarke can make her own decisions. Clarke actually makes really _good_ decisions, unlike some people I know. She doesn’t need you to push her toward what you think is most noble, or whatever.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You need to talk to her, you know. Pushing her away before she pushes you away isn’t a good strategy.”

 

Bellamy loosens his grip on the steering wheel a little. “Yeah. I know.”

 

Monty laughs. “Good. Because you’re driving us all crazy. No offense.”

 

Bellamy laughs, too, and Monty warms at the sound. Monty met Bellamy through Clarke, so he’s always been a bit more Clarke’s friend than his, but man, if Monty doesn’t really love Bellamy a lot. Stupid decisions and all.

 

“So, what was the plan?” Monty asks, twisting on his side to look at Bellamy. “For Vermont.”

 

Bellamy grins back at him; it’s faint, but it’s there, and Monty’s pretty proud he’s managed to spark the first Bellamy smile in weeks. “I was going to take you to get pancakes.”

 

Monty gapes. That is not what he was expecting. “What?”

 

Bellamy scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Uh, I read that Vermont has some of the best pancakes in the country. I thought we’d get there by morning, and we could go on, like, a spontaneous pancake tour.”

 

“Oh my god. Oh my _god_.” Monty cannot contain his laughter. “That is the most…” He trails off, blinking. “Wait. Bellamy. That’s kind of _nice_.”

 

Bellamy shrugs. “You like pancakes, so...”

 

“Well yeah. I mean, minus the middle-of-the-night kidnaping, that actually sounds like a road trip I would be down for.”

 

And then it’s all coming together.

 

“Oh my god,” Monty says, grabbing onto Bellamy’s shoulder. “Have you been trying to be _nice_ this entire time? The sailing?”

 

“Raven’s always talking about how we don’t go to the beach enough.”

 

“And the rave?”

 

Bellamy’s voice is small. “He likes dancing.” And then, a bit louder, “And Miller has always liked adventure sports, so I don’t know why he got all huffy about—”

 

“Because you _kidnapped_ him and _pushed him off a bridge_ without asking first!” Monty shouts, but he’s laughing too hard to put any heat behind the words. There is something just so _Bellamy_ about trying to process his feelings by giving his friends gifts and then absolutely butchering the execution, terrifying everyone in the process. Monty wants to scrunch his cheeks together.

 

“You are so dumb,” he says instead, gleefully squeezing Bellamy’s shoulder. “We love you, and we feel for you, but _man_ , are you dumb.”

 

Bellamy barks out a laugh, wriggling his arm as if to shake off Monty’s grip. But Monty doesn’t let go, and Bellamy doesn’t make him. “I know,” he says. “I really haven’t...I haven’t been thinking. I’m sorry.”

 

Monty grins. “I forgive you. But that’s just me. You’re going to have to apologize to the rest of them, too.”

 

Bellamy grimaces. “Yeah.” Somewhere in the distance, headlights appear over the hill, softly illuminating the back of Bellamy’s curls. “Hey, Monty. You know I would never purposefully get you stranded on the side of the road or otherwise put you in danger, right?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Okay. Can you make sure to tell Miller that? Because he’s about to kill me.”

 

Monty’s opening his mouth to ask what that means, but then then another car is pulling up in front of theirs, and Bellamy is already opening his door to get out, and then a figure that must be Miller is stalking towards them, screaming.

 

“WHAT THE _FUCK_ , BELLAMY?”

 

Bellamy’s holding up his hands, shouting something back that Monty can’t make out, and Monty—thoroughly confused—scrambles to push his door open.

 

“I know, I know—” Bellamy is saying, muffled by Miller’s repeated shout of, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”

 

“Woah, woah!” Monty says, stumbling forward. Miller turns to him, sharp, and it’s pretty hard to make out his features in the dark but Monty can tell that he is livid.

 

“Are you okay?” Miller asks, barely lowering his volume at all. Monty, quite taken aback, nods, but clearly Miller can’t see the movement because he shouts again, louder this time, “Monty, I said _are you okay_?”

 

“Yes!” Monty yelps. “I’m fine!”

 

“I tried to call you!”

 

“I don’t have my phone!”

 

Miller strides towards him, and Monty’s so alarmed by this entire situation that he shrinks back against the hood of the car. But then Miller stops, fists clenched tight at his sides. “Are you in your  _underwear?_ ”

 

“Uh,” Monty says, glancing down. “Pajamas. Which I guess are technically underwear, too, if you want to get particular about—”

 

Miller whirls on Bellamy, cutting Monty off. “The _fuck_ , man?”

 

“I didn’t realize. I would have bought him some clothes once we got to Vermont,” Bellamy says, sheepishly.

 

“VERMONT?”

 

“I didn’t think it through,” Bellamy insists, and he really does look apologetic. “I know, I screwed up.”

 

“You THINK?” Miller throws his shoulders back and unzips his hoodie, and for a second Monty thinks he’s getting ready to tackle Bellamy to the ground. But then all of a sudden Miller is _right there_ , throwing the hoodie around Monty’s shoulders, his breath warm and labored against Monty’s ear.

 

Monty’s heart stutters.

 

“I can’t believe you would do this,” Miller snaps. He’s talking to Bellamy, but his hands are jumping from Monty’s shoulders, to his neck, to his waist, like he doesn’t know how to settle down, and Monty’s having trouble concentrating. “You’re upset, and you’re acting out, but do it on your own fucking time and don’t get other people involved. I can’t believe you would _do this_.”

 

“We were going to go for pancakes,” Monty half-squeaks.

 

Miller doesn’t respond. He just grips Monty’s shoulder a little too tight, and even in the dark, Monty can see the glint of something desperate in his eyes.

 

Then all too soon, Miller is loosening his grip and nudging Monty away. “Get in my car,” he orders, “while we jumpstart Bellamy’s. Go warm up.”

 

Monty wants to say something helpful, but honestly, he’s sleepy and it’s chilly and he’s having trouble processing this entire situation. He glances helplessly over at Bellamy, who nods.

 

“Okay,” Monty says. He leans his forehead into Miller’s shoulder, just for a second. Just because he can. “Yeah. Just hear him out, okay? And don’t murder him?”

 

“I make no promises,” Miller growls, but his hand rises to briefly, gently cup the back of Monty’s head. And while Monty’s ultimately on the side of hoping Bellamy doesn’t get the shit kicked out of him, in that moment, he doesn’t really care one way or the other.

 

* * *

 

Monty doesn’t realize he’s drifting off until he’s startled awake by Miller sliding into the driver’s seat and turning on the ignition. He twists to look back at Bellamy’s car and is surprised to see it’s no longer there.

 

“Oh no,” Monty says, with mock-solemnity. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

 

Miller snorts. “Nope. My better instincts won out. Didn’t want to make you an accomplice.”

 

“Ah,” Monty says, yawning. “Good point. Thanks.”

 

Miller peels away from the breakdown lane, back onto the highway, and Monty checks the dashboard clock: 3:15 a.m.

 

“Well, this has been a night,” he mutters. Then, a little louder, “Thanks for coming to get us.”

 

“Of course,” Miller says, like he’d never _not_ jump out of bed in the middle of the night to scoop his friends up from the side of the road. His selfless devotion to the people he loves is one of the many reasons Monty likes him so much.

 

Also his face. Miller has a very nice face.

 

Currently, his very nice face is frowning, tinted blue from the dashboard light. Monty’s probably a little delirious at this point, because he’s so tempted to lean over and stroke the tension from Miller’s jawline with his thumb.

 

“Did you work things out with Bellamy?” he asks, gripping his seatbelt instead to give his hands something to do.

 

“We talked,” Miller grumbles.

 

“You can’t stay mad at him for too long,” Monty insists. “He’s so sensitive.”

 

“Yes, I can.”

 

“He was just trying to reach out,” Monty continues. “In the dumbest way possible, sure, but it’s _Bellamy_ , what else did we expect from him?”

 

“I expected more than _this_ ,” Miller snarls, surprising Monty with the force of it. “He can be self-destructive all he fucking wants, but he doesn’t get to drag you down with him. He knows how much I—he knows better than this.”

 

Monty stares at him.

 

“You know I’m fine, right?” he asks, a little breathless, barely believing he’s having this conversation. “Like, I’m tired, and I guess it would have sucked if Bellamy’s phone had run out of batteries before we got in touch with you, but even then, I still would have been fine.”

 

Miller doesn’t say anything.

 

This time, Monty can’t help himself. He leans over and rests his palm, experimentally, on Miller’s shoulder.

 

Miller exhales, and the tension in his back unknots. Emboldened, Monty slides his palm up Miller’s neck until he’s cupping his cheek.

 

Miller keeps his eyes on the road, but he tilts his head ever so slightly, pressing back against Monty’s palm.

 

Monty swallows.

 

“Bellamy’s just...bad at feelings,” he says, quietly. “I kind of get that.”

 

“Yeah,” Miller says, voice thick. “I kind of get that, too.”

 

***

 

Monty has every intention to sleep through the entirety of Saturday. He thinks he’s earned it. But then Jasper barges into his room around 11:00 am, shoving his computer in Monty’s face with a delighted grin.

 

“I heard from Clarke!” he exclaims, over Monty’s groan. “She said she got me one of those weird British guard hats. You know, the fuzzy ones I kept bugging her about.”

 

“Great,” Monty says, digging his face farther into his pillow. “Congrats. Go away.”

 

“No, don’t you get it?” Jasper asks, launching himself into the bed because Jasper has no boundaries. “It’s not about the hat. It’s that she got in touch at all. For the first time in _weeks_.”

 

“So?”

 

“C’mon, man, look,” Jasper insists, and Monty reluctantly opens his eyes and twists his head towards the screen. Clarke’s email is short, but towards the bottom—above a picture of Clarke holding two ridiculous hats up for the camera—is a sentence that immediately catches Monty’s eye.

 

_I bought one for Bellamy, too. Don’t tell him. I’m going to make him wear it for Halloween._

 

“They made up,” Monty breathes, surprised at the visceral relief he feels. He’d always thought they would, because there are no two people more perfect for each other than Clarke and Bellamy. He’d always known they’d either wind up together or wind up murdering each other.

 

Still, it’s nice to see proof they worked things out.

 

“They made up!” Jasper confirms, throwing himself over Monty in a sweet (but painful) attempt at a hug.

 

“Thank god,” Monty says, patting Jasper’s arm.

 

“Agreed,” says Jasper, drawing back. He frowns. “Wait, did you wear a sweatshirt to sleep? Who’s even is this?”

 

Monty glances down; he hadn’t taken Miller’s hoodie off before passing out last night. “It’s, uh, a long story. Just be glad Bellamy got his shit together before he got to you.”

 

Jasper’s grinning. “It’s _Miller’s_ , isn’t it.”

 

“What?” Monty flushes. “How did you—”

 

“I’m ready for that _long story_ , now,” Jasper says, resting his chin in his palms and looking so goddamn smug. With great effort, Monty lifts the pillow from beneath him and whacks Jasper across the face with it.

 

* * *

 

 

Monty heads over to Bellamy and Miller’s that night, because he and Miller had already made plans to play Smash Brothers and he’s not going to let a little weirdness—okay, a lot of weirdness—get in the way of that.

 

And yeah, a little part of him wants to see whether he can come up with a reasonable excuse to touch Miller’s face again. But just, like, a little part.

 

Bellamy answers the door wearing an apron and an embarrassed smile. “Hey, Monty. Come on in, I made muffins.”

 

“Chocolate chip?” Monty asks, following him in.

 

“Yep. Take as many as you’d like. I owe you after…” Bellamy trails off. “Well, you know.”

 

“The kidnapping?” Monty suggests, grabbing a muffin from the top of the pile. It’s less a pile, really, than a muffin _mountain_. Monty’s not sure why Bellamy couldn’t just channel his rage through aggressive stress-baking, like a normal person, since he so clearly enjoys it. But whatever, what’s done is done.

 

“Yeah. I’m sorry about that,” Bellamy says.

 

“I already said I forgive you,” Monty laughs, “but I’m still going to eat, like, most of these muffins. I take it things worked out with Clarke?”

 

“We skyped for awhile this morning,” Bellamy says, fiddling with his apron. “I admitted I was being an asshole. I’m going to fly out in a few weeks to go see her, so we can really talk things through.”

 

“I’m glad, man,” Monty says, hoping the fact that his mouth is half-full of muffin doesn’t distract from his sincerity. It doesn’t seem to, because Bellamy claps him on the shoulder and gives him a warm smile.

 

“Miller just got out of shower,” he says. “He’ll be out in a sec. I’ll make myself scarce.”

 

“Huh?” Monty’s confused; Bellamy attends Smash Brothers night, like, at least half the time. He always plays Jigglypuff, and he’s terrible. “You don’t have to…”

 

But Bellamy’s giving him this strange look. “It’s cool. You guys should, uh. Talk. I’ll just...here, have more muffins.” And then, like the least stealthy spy in all existence, he practically sprints for his room.

 

Monty only has a few seconds to stand blinking in the kitchen, wondering what the hell just happened, before Miller’s door opens. Miller’s wearing jeans and this hunter green henley he has that Monty’s always thought makes him look unfairly attractive. Monty’s a bit confused, because Miller almost always wears sweats when he’s at home, but Monty’s also not complaining.

 

“Are you and Bellamy still fighting?” Monty asks. “Because he basically just ran away.”

 

Miller’s eyes dart to Bellamy’s door and then back to Monty. “We talked, we’re fine,” he says, an odd tenor to his voice. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Uh, hi.”

 

“Hi.”

 

“Hi.”

 

“You said that.”

 

Miller shakes his head, like he’s trying to wake himself up. “Uh, want to sit?”

 

“Sure,” says Monty, trying for nonchalance. But he can’t shake the feeling that something really weird is going on. Miller looks...fidgety. He sits on the couch, and Miller sits next to him, close enough that their knees are almost touching. He smells like soap, and Monty wishes he had the courage to lean those few inches over and tilt his head onto Miller’s shoulder.

 

“What’s up?” Monty asks, after a long beat.

 

“So, you were right,” Miller says. He’s looking down at his hands, clasped on his lap. “About the whole feelings thing.”

 

“That it’s better to talk about them than not?” Monty guesses. Miller nods. “Yeah. Not to put too fine a point on it, but: duh.”

 

The corner of Miller’s mouth twitches, that telltale Miller not-quite-smile. Then he’s looking straight at Monty, firm and serious, and his face is actually rather close, and Monty sucks in a breath.

 

“I probably overreacted, last night,” Miller says. “But I always overreact, when it comes to you.”

 

Monty’s heart is beating wildly against his ribcage, now, because _what_. He forces himself to hold Miller’s stare.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Miller’s eyes flick down to Monty’s lips, and Monty has just a second to process _oh shit, this is happening_ before Miller’s leaning in and gently, tentatively covering Monty’s mouth with his own.

 

_Oh._

 

It’s way too short a kiss, but it still sucks all the wind from Monty’s body. Monty’s grinning when Miller pulls away.

 

“You are ridiculous,” Monty laughs. Miller looks a little alarmed, so Monty shifts closer, gripping Miller’s forearms. “You realize that as wonderful as that was, it doesn’t actually count as talking about your feelings, right?”

 

“Wonderful?” Miller echoes, sounding a bit dazed.

 

Monty leans forward and kisses him, cupping Miller’s cheek like he’s always dreamed he would, if he were ever lucky enough to get his chance. When he pulls back, just a few inches, Miller’s eyes are closed, his breath heavy.

 

“I really like you,” Miller mumbles, and Monty will not laugh from pure joy and come across as a maniac during one of the best moments of his life. He _will not_.

 

“I really like you, too,” Monty says, smile so wide it practically hurts. “See? _Feelings_. I’m so proud of you.”

 

Miller groans, tugging Monty closer closer.

  
“Shut up.”


End file.
